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Filing Papers

By Kimberly Sailor

Posted on June 23, 2014

The woman in front of me has an emerald green pea coat, so naturally I am back inIreland. He said driving on the wrong side of the road was no big deal, so long as itwasn’t a narrow country road with a wide tractor puffing past. But we smoothedeverything over with thick beer, national radio stories about “those bad boys from Cork,”and merry music at the pub that played all night.

It’s so humid and uncomfortable down here, and now I’m back in Costa Rica and ourjungle-side room with the light dusting of mold on the walls. “The parrots! The monkeys!The green sideways-running lizards!” I told him on the plane, just before I napped on hisarm and he played with my hair. I know I dreamed of adventures in wait.

We bought a well-appointed condo on the east side the year before we were married.We were smug young professionals, him at a powerhouse real estate agency, me at aslick marketing company, and boy did we enjoy opening new bottles of wine on ourtwinkly rooftop garden. “This one came from that Napa tour,” he said, pouring it intooversized glasses with owls etched on the side. I could hear people below, leaving theoffice, going to dinner, waiting to meet a stranger, but we’d created such an enchantingworld that my own community grew dimmer and dimmer as I lay in his light.

A man leaves the line, his phone dancing in his palm, and we all shift forward in a slowtango. Heat, bad air, anger, low lights: how does anyone work down here? What’s thislife like?

I never had less than the best; than every upgrade, juiciest cut, thickest threads,sleekest car, cutlery that would never, could never, tarnish or bend. We were twenty-fiveyear-old dream-stealers. But when we lost the baby at twenty-five weeks, then I knew.

At some point the nurse put ink on the baby’s feet and captured two black smudges forthe baby book. I wasn’t really aware of this, or his whereabouts, or anything except thesudden absence inside me. The rest of the baby book pages remained blank. I finallyused it all as kindling last night. The glossy pages made the fire blue.

By twenty-eight, I knew we were very different; he was the manager, and I stayed thesame. He was away on indulgent trips by himself, luring more clients and cash, and Istayed behind. He confidently took the road we’d paved together, while I turned off andwalked the city fields alone.

I hung on until thirty-three, today, my birthday. Last night my friend and I sat on my bedtogether while he was downstairs filing acquisition paperwork. He was floors away, butwe whispered, because he didn’t know.

“Well,” she said, staring blankly at our comforter, “Most historians think Jesus died atthirty-three. So really, you have a whole second life ahead of you. You’re just going tostart right over. You made it further than He did.”

It’s my turn in the basement. “Yes?” says the man in white behind the counter.
“I’m here to file divorce papers,” I tell him, sliding a stack under the glass.

“Sounds good,” he says, smacking the top layer with an inky date stamper.

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